She knew that like herself he was practically devoid of relatives,—­the last of his race,—­a figure of splendid isolation that would appeal to many.  She knew that as a wealthy and unmarried baronet, he would be greatly sought after and courted; made much of by the whole county, and half London as well.  He was so handsome, so romantic, so altogether eligible in every way.  Was it for this that he had left that note of hers unanswered?  Did he think that now that his horizon had widened the nearer haven was hardly worth attaining?  Above all, if he decided to take that which she had so spontaneously offered, would it satisfy him?  Would he be content therewith?  Had she not done better to have waited till he came again to ask of her that which she had till the day of his bereavement withheld?

It was useless to torture herself with such questionings.  Because of her promise to the dead, she had acted, and she could now but await the result of her action.  If he never answered,—­well, she would understand.

So passed yet another day of silence.

She was busy with the household accounts that night which Mrs. Lorimer in her woe had left in some confusion, and they kept her occupied till long after the children had gone to bed, so late indeed that the servants also had retired and she was left alone in the dining-room to wrestle with her difficulties.

She found it next to impossible to straighten out the muddle, and she came at length reluctantly to the conclusion that it was beyond her powers.  Wondering what the Reverend Stephen would have said to such a crime, she abstracted a few shillings from her own purse and fraudulently made up the deficit that had vexed Mrs. Lorimer’s soul.

“I can write and tell her now that it has come right,” she murmured to herself, as she rose from the table.

It was close upon eleven o’clock.  The house was shuttered and silent.  The stillness was intense; when suddenly, as she was in the act of lighting a candle, the electric bell pinged through the quiet of the night.

She started and listened.  The thought of Piers sprang instinctively to her mind.  Could it be he?  But surely even Piers would not come to her at this hour!  It must be some parishioner in need of help.

She turned to answer the summons, but ere she reached the hall it was repeated twice, with nervous insistence.  She hastened to withdraw the bolts and open the door.

At once a voice accosted her, and a sharp pang of disappointment or anxiety, she knew not which, went through her.

“Mrs. Denys, is she here?” it said.  “May I speak with her?”

It was the unmistakable speech of a Frenchman.  By the light of the hall-lamp, Avery saw the plump, anxious face and little pointed moustache of the speaker.  He entered uninvited and stood before her.

“Ah!  But you are Mrs. Denys!” he exclaimed with relief. “Madame, I beg that you will pardon me!  I am come to you in distress the most profound.  You will listen to me, yes?”